Seven
by like broken glass
Summary: He saved Sam Winchester's life six times and Sam might have saved his too somewhere along the way. SLASH.
1. 1

_I don't own Harry Potter or Supernatural._

_Pairings:_ Harry/Sam (might be Dean/Cas later).

_Beta:_ None.

_Author's Notes:_ I've never written a crossover before and this is the first thing I've written in months so sorry if it's utter crap. Also, I couldn't bring myself to watch the first episode of Supernatural again, so some details might be wrong and such. I think that's all...

_Summary:_ He saved Sam Winchester's life six times and Sam might have saved his too somewhere along the way.

* * *

**Seven**

_1 – the first time harry potter saved sam winchester's life_

Darkness had fallen and it curled along the streets, spinning through gardens and backyards, seeping through windows and flying above rooftops. The neighbourhood was nice, not exceedingly rich nor fancy, but the houses had good structure and the colours of each blended together well as one walked down the sidewalk. Harry kept his footsteps slow, knowing the reason he had arrived on this very street wouldn't happen for a few moments. His sneakers shuffled as he walked. The wind blew softly against his face, caressing his cheeks and neck. He smiled slightly, but it faded quickly as he reached his destination.

Harry could feel it; the dark, tainted presence creeping around the house, invading the walls. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, adrenalin beginning to rush through his veins. He almost reached for his wand, but stopped himself. _You don't need your wand anymore_, he told himself firmly. _You never will again_.

It was hard adjusting to this new role he had been shoved into. All his life he had played hero and now he just existed. Never aging, never changing, just repeating the same thing over and over again. A part of him wished he could go back – stop himself from picking up the wand, or the stone, or even the invisibility cloak, despite the connection it had given him to his father.

_A father I'll probably never get to meet. _He snorted bitterly. _Master of Death, indeed. _

Harry shook his head firmly; he was here to collect a soul, not dwell on thoughts that would only lead him down a messy road. Turning on his heel, he appeared silently and invisible in the intended room. It had creamy walls and there was a crib in the middle.

_Please, no, don't let this be the child._ He begged, an aching settling in his gut. He should be used to this by now; he should be able to detach himself, but he couldn't find that cold mask that Death had. Sometimes he was jealous of that, the way Death never batted an eyelash at the way life seemed to dissolve in the blink of an eye. But after those thoughts had run their course, Harry always felt grateful that he couldn't do that. Maybe that meant he still had his humanity – that he hadn't been deformed from who he had been; who he wasn't now.

The child moved restlessly in its sleep, a small mop of fine brown hair encircled the baby's head, eyes closed and fists tightly clinched.

"Azazel," Harry greeted coldly as the demon entered the bedroom. He easily could have hid himself from the yellow-eyed man, but a small part of him thought that his presence might make the demon pause his actions, but it was a vain hope. Death told him he could not interfere; it just wasn't done.

Harry was _harry_ though, and he had always tried to bend the rules to his will. Despite never stepping in, stopping the blood from reaching the chosen child's lips, he had taken it upon himself to collect the souls of their mothers (or the few children that didn't live through his actions) – which Azazel ruthlessly killed. Maybe, maybe one day he could fine that spark of defiance he used to possess and kill the demon for the lives he was ruining.

"Master of Death," Azazel greeted with false cheer, turning his back completely to Harry and ignoring his presence. Cutting his wrist evenly, without flinching he opened the small child's jaw and let the blood flow slowly into his mouth.

Time passed quickly; the mother entered just as Harry knew she would. Who would not race to their son's rescue should they notice a strange man _bleeding_ into their baby's mouth? He hoped, perhaps due to the woman's history in hunting, she could overcome the powerful demon, but Azazel worked just as swiftly as he had done with the others. She was on the ceiling in seconds. The child awoke, hearing his mother's scream and started to cry, his little face turning red and tears escaping from his brown eyes.

Just as the flames started Azazel disappeared. Smoke wafted from the ceiling, curling around the child in the crib. The baby moved groggily. The door burst open; the young father froze upon seeing his wife hanging from the ceiling, fire slowly licking her flesh. Harry could feel the woman's soul leaving her body, but he was watching the child, whose lungs were slowly filling with smoke.

"Save him." A voice in his ear whispered. "Please."

Harry turned, looking at the woman who now stood beside him, ignoring her own burning body atop the ceiling for the sight of her infant son.

"You can save him, I know you can. _Please_."

The dark-haired husband grabbed the baby and turned to the toddler who had come to investigate, his frightened green gaze boring into Harry's very soul.

"Take Sammy and go!" The young man ordered, shoving the toddler away from him.

Harry ignored the man – John? – and followed the child out, reaching out an invisible hand to stop the little boy from tripping on the stairs. By the time they made it out to the yard, little Sammy was wheezing pitifully and his older brother was staring at him, frightened. The soul of their dead mother was crouched beside them, eyes pleading.

Bending over the baby, Harry was shocked to find the infant's eyes looking right at him. Of course, that was impossible. No one should be able to see him now. Unless... That small thought was enough to pull him into action.

_Damn the consequences!_ Harry growled at himself. He touched a finger to the child's head.

Mary smiled at him.

* * *

"Hello," Harry greeted the man as he sat down in the chair across from him. They were somewhere in Saint Louis – or at least he thought so – in a small, mostly empty diner. Death had a milkshake in front of him, eating french-fries slowly, taking the time to lick the grease and salt off his fingers.

Harry's fists curled nervously as the man did not respond. The waitress came immediately upon seeing the new arrival.

"What can I get you?" She asked, her face straining with its large smile. Harry knew she could sense the power surrounding himself and his companion and was frightened of it. That was normal, really, and it made Harry hate himself a bit more every time he saw that fear spring into their eyes as they gazed at him.

Biting his lip, he asked softly, "Do you have chocolate milk?"

Her smile widened, shaking at the ends. Nodding, she turned back to the kitchen.

"Do not assume I do not know what you did." Death finally said, pushing his empty plate to the side.

Harry sat his chocolate milk down, suddenly feeling very cold. It was not fear, rather dread. What did he have to fear really? He could not die. Death did not have the power to harm him. He supposed it was the way the man could look at him, disappointment and perhaps even anger in his eyes. Harry had never had parents, and even with all the twists and turns that Death and his relationship included, was made of, the five years he had spent like this the man had grown on him. He hadn't been soft, but he had been patient with Harry and his still mostly human emotions.

Death finally met his eyes. Harry almost slumped in relief when he saw the man's normally emotionless orbs looking back at him.

"Samuel Winchester was not supposed to die." With that, Death stood and left Harry alone to his chocolate milk and the bill.


	2. 2

_I don't own Harry Potter or Supernatural._

_Pairings:_ Harry/Sam (might be Dean/Cas later).

_Beta:_ None.

_Author's Notes:_ I wanted to point out that it's been nine and a half years since the last chapter and Harry has obviously changed – lost some of his human habits and phrases – so that's why he seems so different. Thank you if you followed, favourited, or reviewed.

_Summary:_ He saved Sam Winchester's life six times and Sam might have saved his too somewhere along the way.

* * *

**Seven**

_2 – the second time harry potter saved sam winchester's life_

A stray cat fled down the vacant alley, disappearing into the shadows. The rain fell heavily from the dark, intimidating clouds. The town was a really dreadful sight; a rundown gas station sat on the corner, a small family owned diner to its left, and the small, scattered houses stood frowning against the muddy green grass. The motel was small; the sheets were itchy, the shower had bleach stains in it, and there was a mysterious stain on the carpet, but it could have been worse, right? At least that's what Dean had told him.

Sam looked up, sighed and returned to his work, head dipped low to watch the movements of his pencil. His cursive was still shaky and his last teacher, Mrs. Wheeler, had told him to practice. The ten-year old bit his tongue lightly as he trying to mimic the 'Q' as it was written on the page. Sam wished – not for the first time – that his father wasn't so detached or his older brother, Dean, wasn't so hard to talk to. Maybe then one of them might sit down and show him how to draw a capital 'S' without making his wrist ache. But his father didn't like to talk about school and his brother had no interest in his studies.

It wasn't as if Sam really enjoyed the work. Frankly, math made his head hurt and science was one of the most confusing things he'd ever encountered. But school, school was _normal_. In a life that was so freakishly abnormal, full of monsters that are only supposed to exist in storybooks or horror films, Sam clutched onto anything normal. Normal was _good_. Normal was_ normal_.

His stomach growled and Sam shifted uncomfortably on the uncomfortable bed. Closing his book, leaving his pencil in it to mark his page, Sam stood and stretched. He knew he wasn't allowed to go out – even if for food. His dad and Dean had gone to finish the hunt they had spent the last two days researching and dissecting. His father could have handled it alone, but he wanted Dean to have as much experience as possible before they took on whatever killed their mom – even if it was just a simple salt and burn.

Sam didn't really understand why his father was so obsessed with getting his revenge, but whenever the subject came up, Dean would just tell him he was 'too young' and 'wouldn't understand'. Okay, so maybe Sam had never felt their mom's loss, not like Dean who could remember her or their father who had loved her did, but that didn't mean he was stupid or a baby. He knew how to take care of himself quite well. He could put up with the bullies at every new school he was enrolled in, the taunts for being the 'new kid'; he could live with the lumpy mattresses and the pull-out couches; he could take the long hours in the car, only stopping for gas and toilet breaks; he could even deal with the fact monsters were real. However, there was something that had always bothered him – something that left this hollow inside of him.

He wanted them to care.

Oh, Sam knew that his father and Dean loved him. But you can love someone and not truly care about them, can't you? You could die for someone, but not really care what grade they got on a test or what their favourite colour was. Isn't that what mothers preached about their newborn babies? They didn't know the kid! They had no idea who they would grow up to be, what they would do with their lives, but from the second the infant is placed in their arms they would dive in front of a bullet for it?

_It didn't make sense_. A lot of things didn't make sense.

Sam moved over to the small table where his bag was placed. He shoved the book inside of it, and after a few hesitant seconds, extracted the money his father had given him for emergencies.

_I'm hungry and they won't be back for hours_, he rationalized to himself._ I'll just walk down the street to the gas station; get a bag of chips or something. It's not that far. They'll never know I even left the motel. _

Nodding to himself, Sam grabbed his jacket and stuck the wad of bills in his pocket, reaching for the spare motel key lying on the small table. As he closed the door he couldn't ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach.

One newly purchased soda and bag of chips later, Sam was walking quickly down the street. His feet were moving faster than he normally would; he wasn't sure why, but it might have something to do with the eyes he could feel boring into the back of his head. Sam had been on a few hunts before – mostly sitting in the car and waiting for his Dad to come back covered in dirt and smelling of sweat – and if his dad had taught him anything, it was to trust your instincts.

Keeping his pace, he slowly removed the small silver knife from his back pocket, holding it in his palm out of sight. It seemed silly, a ten-year-old walking back to a motel carrying junk food and thinking he was about to be attacked in broad daylight.

_Monsters don't just live in the dark, you know._

It came out of nowhere, running at him with a speed no one should be able to possess. Sam stumbled back, frantically trying to get out of the unknown shape's way. It was useless. The figure grabbed him, pulling him from the open street to the dark space in between two rundown houses. The silver knife was roughly taken from his hand, the blade swiping against his palm leaving a painful, stinging cut.

Tears unwilling built in Sam's eyes as he pulled at the hand around his throat. It was too tight; he couldn't breathe.

"Mr. Fielding, please let the child go." A voice from behind them asked politely.

The hand tightened. Sam's lungs burned.

Suddenly, as if it he had been pushed away by a gust of wind, the man attacking Sam flew back into the air, landing in a pile a few feet from where he had once been standing.

"I did ask nicely."

Sam turned his neck painfully, to look at the voice. He was obviously a man, dressed casually in dark jeans and a gold coloured shirt. He wasn't as tall as Sam's father, but wasn't short either. Disheveled black locks fell clumsily onto the man's forehead, brushing the collar of his shirt. He was young, without a beard, but his face was strong and his eyes...

_He's not demon. No demon has eyes like that._

"Are you just going to stand there?" Unlike how Dean would have said it – mockingly and insulting his intelligence – this man asked it as an honest question, no underlining emotion in his voice.

Sam stumbled back, tripping on his long pant leg and falling to the pavement, jeans now covered in wet dirt. The rain had stopped a few hours ago.

The unnamed man raised an eyebrow at him, face contorted in an unknown emotion, before turning his back on the boy. "Mr. Fielding, why attack the child, may I ask?"

The creature rushed at the man in response. Sam squeezed his eyes tightly shut, unwell to watch his rescuer be disassembled by some bloodthirsty being. He could hear the sound of a knife meeting flesh and he felt bile rising in his throat.

The next thing Sam was aware of was a cool hand on his forehead.

"Are you alright?"

His hero was crouched in front of him, face soft as he stared at Sam. The question brought many sensations to the surface – his hand was burning, his neck ached, and his back felt like the skin had been grinded off of it.

_Nothing his father ever taught him included this. _

Tears burned down Sam's cheeks. He knew he should move away from this man – _don't trust anyone_, his father's voice echoed in his head.

But this man had _saved_ him.

_But he also made that thing fly feet in the air without touching it._

But he had saved him.

"W-who are you?" His tongue felt like lead.

The man looked confused, as if he hadn't expected such a question. Then he smiled; it was sad and strangely hopeful. "You can call me Harry."

Harry touched Sam's forehead again. The pavement and headless body disappeared and the ten year old found himself sitting on the floor in the motel room he had left only a half-hour ago. It seemed much longer.

"How did you do that?" He stood, stumbling away from Harry, who now stood straight and looked much taller than he probably was.

_Witch._ The words chanted themselves in Sam's head. His father had hunted a witch only two weeks ago, coming home with a long, deep cut on his side that Dean had stitched up, hands shaking.

"I'm not a witch." Harry said, as if he could read Sam's mind.

Sam didn't relax.

Harry sighed. "I'll leave, but please let me heal you first?"

"How do I know you won't just kill me?"

"I just saved your life; why would I kill you now?"

"I-I don't know!" Sam burst out. He just wanted to curl in his bed and hide his face under the pillow. He wanted Dean to come back and give him that cheeky grin and ruffle his hair. His brother had always made him feel safer, no matter how annoying the older boy was.

Stepping slowly, Harry touched his forehead lightly for the third time, encasing Sam in a warm heat that made his head tingle pleasantly.

"There." Harry said, nodding his head, black hair drooping over his eyes. "And I believe these are yours?"

There, in his hands, sat Sam's dropped soda and bag of chips.

Sam nodded absently, too busy examining the healed cut on his palm. It was still that light pink of a new scar, but it would fade.

"What was that thing?" He asked, looking back up at the man, no small amount of awe in his eyes.

Harry had just healed him after all. The previous pain in his neck had evaporated, the burning along his back had faded, and his fingers were still stroking the healed skin of his hand.

Harry sat the untaken soda and chips on the bed, folding his hand behind his back. "That was a newly turned vampire."

Sam shook his head. "I've seen vampires before. They've never acted so..." He searched for the words. "They seemed smarter than that."

Harry frowned. "Perhaps the ones you've seen have been taken in by other vampires – taught to blend in. Mr. Fielding was newly turned and sought to take his revenge on those who wronged him with his new found...abilities."

"But none of the bodies had teeth marks." Sam interjected, remembering the sheets of paper lying across one of the double beds, the various debates spoken by his father and brother on what might be killing these people. "They died by strangulation." Sam brought a hand to his neck.

Harry nodded. "Mr. Fielding was one of the oddest vampires I'd ever seen. He did not drink from any of his victims... He did however drain his wife dry. They will find her body in a few days, I suspect. Mr. Fielding has not been reported missing because of that. Had your father had any of this information, I'm sure he would have come to a different conclusion."

"That doesn't explain why he came after _me_, though."

"Perhaps you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time." Harry offered, one shoulder lifting up in a small shrug. "Now," Harry walked towards the door, "I shall leave you to your own devices. Do not run into danger like that again, please."

"I didn't know a vampire was going to come after me!" Sam retorted hotly.

Harry gave a smile, the only happy and genuine one Sam had seen yet. "I know exactly what you mean."

And then he vanished.

* * *

"You found him then?" Death asked, placing his burger to the side as he examined Harry with sharp eyes.

"Yes," Harry replied. "I think so." He resisted the urge to twist his fingers around his sleeve or perhaps bounce his knee. He felt too _still_ – like everything else was moving, but he was just sitting here unchanged.

"He saw you, correct?"

"No human should have been able to detect my presence."

"And Azazel's blood?"

Harry grimaced, before composing his face back to that impassive mask. Death had told him he needed to stop it – stop feeling all those human emotions.

_You are not a human anymore, Harry, and keeping those emotions will kill you._

_But I can't die._

_It is not a matter of your body losing its life. The mind is a wonderful and terrible creation. Compassion will be your death, child._

"That is the question, isn't it? Sam only noticed my presence after the blood had touched his lips..." Harry trailed off, feeling the knot in his stomach. He had been so hopeful, but the longer he thought (and _merlin_ he had all the time in the word to just think and think and think) it seemed less and less likely. "But he had been asleep before that. Also, none of the other infected children acknowledged me."

_Hope is meaningless. Your friends will never come. You will die here, Harry Potter._ Voldemort's voice whispered in his head, curling around his thoughts like smoke.

Death seemed to echo Voldemort's words. "Do not get your hopes up."


End file.
